


And If You Close Your Eyes

by Be_Right_Back



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Obi-Wan Kenobi, Banthas (Star Wars), CT-7567 | Rex Needs a Hug, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Jedi and Clones - Freeform, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Tatooine (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Right_Back/pseuds/Be_Right_Back
Summary: Does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all?Rex finds out from Ezra that Obi-Wan is on Tatooine. He has go to see for himself.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & CT-7567 | Rex
Comments: 43
Kudos: 397
Collections: 2020 Obi-Wan Kenobi Gen Exchange





	And If You Close Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ASadHermitStory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASadHermitStory/gifts).



> Hope you like it!
> 
> The title is from "Pompeii" by Bastille.

Ezra comes back from Tatooine unharmed and in possession of Maul’s ship. Crazy Jedi and their banthakark. The others don’t ask too many questions, because it takes a special brand of stupid to get involved with Force stuff when you don’t have it yourself. Jango probably didn’t have that many brain cells – guess that’s why they cloned him.

The Kaminoans got themselves an army of fools. Stupid enough to be used in the grand plan – and stupid enough that even now, after all these years, Rex is getting involved with Force stuff. He has so much to make up for, to so many people, but _still_. Why does it always have to be Force stuff?

Rex corners Ezra after his lame excuse for a briefing – sloppy, shiny-like, and Hera shouldn’t have let it go – and snatches him by the elbow before Kanan can. He drags the kid to an empty room despite his protestations, like hauling a tooka kit by the neck. Then he plants the kid in the room, slams his hands on both shoulders and grounds him there. And he gives him the Captain Glare for good measure, though any sane soldier would already be quaking in his boots even without it.

Ezra doesn’t look impressed. Who ever said Jedi were sane?

“Spill,” Rex grinds out.

Ezra lifts an eyebrow. It’s nonplussed and it’s ever-so-smug and it’s so _Jedi_ that Rex has to clamp down the urge to shake the Commander. Kark. Kark kark _kark_. There are images flashing before Rex’s eyes that shouldn’t be there because there’s nothing to _see_ , shadows of old smiles and cocky looks and sly grins that you would get instead of a straight answer. Rex ignores the images and focuses on the kid, who’s still way too calm and way too unwilling to get intimidated already and stop playing the elusive mystical wizard.

“What did you find?” Rex presses through gritted teeth, like his heart isn’t up his throat right now, right where his lunch might soon follow.

Ezra cocks his head to the side. Maybe he’s listening to the sound of Rex’s stomach doing backflips, and _kriff_ , why is it that after seventeen years it’s still Jedi business that manages to give Rex hope like nothing can while simultaneously grinding the pieces of his broken spirit to fine dust? Kriffing unfair.

“I found Maul,” Ezra says cautiously.

He’s evaluating Rex with his eyes, vibrant blue like General Unduli’s and Commander Offee’s and Ahsoka’s when she was younger and the Generals’ and— and suddenly it’s all too much and there are ghosts that Rex kept at bay even here, even as a Rebel. Even after coming back, even after Kanan and Ezra and Maul and Ahsoka and _Vader_ and everything, even after Kalani, and Saw, and Senator Organa, and all the pieces of their shattered lives, he held it at bay. He held on to the present – the _here and now_ of the Jedi – and kept it all under control, and now it’s slipping between his fingers and it feels like he might finally unravel.

But not _here_ , not _now_ , not in front of this kid in this base full of half-soldiers that fight so desperately for what they believe to be just and are nothing like his brothers but so alike in some ways.

On Umbara, Rex looked evil in the eyes and didn’t look away. And now he looks away from a kid.

“Ezra,” he tries.

The rest catches in his throat. Ezra is still watching him – smart kid, shouldn’t take your eyes off an unknown factor – so he gets himself under control. His hands, he notices distantly, are gripping Ezra’s shoulders way too tight.

“Ezra, please,” he manages. “This is important to me.”

“It’s important, period,” Ezra contradicts. “C’mon, Rex, you know how these things work. Need to know basis and all that.”

His voice is serious, not unkind. A Jedi through and through. Kark.

Rex’s hands fall to his sides and he turns away. Starts to pace abruptly, like he’s some undisciplined cadet and not Captain Rex of the 501st. Blast it. He balls up his fists, whips around to face the baby Jedi who _doesn’t get it_ and never will because he _wasn’t even born_.

“ _I_ need to know!”

Regret fleets across Ezra’s face and Rex knows he has his answer, but it doesn’t count as long as he’s not heard it. Hope is rare and fragile, and nothing gives hope like Jedi – and as Jedi die, so does hope wither. Rex can’t handle another dead hope. Ezra starts shaking his head and catches himself.

“Look,” he says, pressing and concerned and grave all at once, “you _can’t_ run off like I did, okay? I was wrong, and there’s much more at stake here than I understood. If I tell you about what I found, you can’t act on it, at all.”

“Go on,” Rex prompts.

He’s not promising anything.

“There’s someone on Tatooine,” Ezra says carefully. “Someone you know. But he’s there for a reason, and none of us should go. If the Empire finds out about him, then it might doom us all. Not just the Rebellion, but everyone. The whole Galaxy.”

Sounds like someone he knows alright. Rex’s eyes are burning and he turns away, shoulders hunching under the weight of the past. How did the Jedi do it, he wonders, carrying the Galaxy for so long before it crushed them? Why do they keep doing it when it brought them nothing but death, destruction, and hatred or indifference from the ungrateful droid-brained civilians they protected?

“I won’t run off,” he reassures Ezra, swallowing the pain. “But I can’t promise you I’ll never go.”

Ezra opens his mouth, obliviously to object, and then Kanan’s there with his concern clear in his downturned lips and tilted head.

“Ezra, Rex, what’s going on?” He asks.

Rex brushes past him with a muttered “nothing” that wouldn’t fool a B1. But they’ll leave him alone. He meant what he said, he won’t run off. It’s not like there’s time anyway.

* * *

Sand and ocher skies and one too many suns, and that feeling the entire world’s melting and your own skin is sloughing off. If Rex ever made fun of _anyone_ ’s deep hatred of desert planets at some point in his life, Tatooine is his due payment for being cold-hearted.

May the Force and whoever’s in charge of it all forgive him his callousness.

It’s so hot you could kick the sand and it’d turn into clari-crystal. Rex doesn’t try, because then there’d be shards of clari-crystal everywhere, but he’d swear the dusty ground crunches way more than it should with each step.

He takes another swig from his water jug and sighs. Shielding his eyes, he tries to get a glimpse of the horizon and has as much success as the last thirty times. Sand, sand, more sand, rocks, and then that blurry line that keeps shifting because this is a desert and you can’t see poodoo from a distance when the air’s so hot it’d distort durasteel, nevermind someone’s line of sight.

The suns are high in the sky. It must be something like 1500 hours local time, and the heat’s probably not going away for a long while still. Rex should find shelter, continue his search when the world’s no longer blazing. Wouldn’t want to end up chasing mirages, after all. Tatooine’s Jundland Wastes are rocky and inhospitable, but canyons do offer some shade. Rex was warned to keep away because of the Tuskens, but he ain’t scared of a bunch of stick-wielding nomads. He’s got his blasters. He’ll hike until he reaches the north-western edge of the desert, and then set up camp there.

Next time, he reflects humorlessly, he’ll listen to the thieves and crooks that tried to pressure him into buying the piles of junk they called speeders. This is no way to travel.

Rex walks and walks and walks, and he’s reminded of the campaigns of the Clone Wars, back when battles were fought on the ground just as often as in space. Everything’s different now – darker and colder, empty like the void. You don’t get to see your friends die, and you don’t get the bodies back. He clamps down on the thoughts hard – memories of the last battle, the loss of Atollon – and forces the ghosts back into their cages, where they belong.

He can handle a trek through the desert. He’s a Clone. An old one – and isn’t that what they all keep calling him, “old man,” when they’re his age or older? – but a good one.

Rex walks and walks some more, and the yellow sand of the southern Jundland gives way to the red dust of the canyons. That’s good. The dust sticks to his armor and skin and it’s gross and uncomfortable. He slinks under a big rock in the cliff face and sits there. It’s cool enough that his brain finally fires at all thrusters again. _That’s_ not good.

Rex briefly contemplates going back into the heat. The merciless suns provided a nice anesthetic, boiling anxiety and doubts out of existence before they could plague him. Now they don’t, and he’s alone with his mind like he hasn’t been in a long time, one man in a desert so desolate Rex feels like he’s the only sentient left in the Galaxy.

Pulling his knees to his chest, Rex pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to listen to the whispers.

 _He’s not there_ , one says. _That’s not him_.

_He’s already dead. It’s been a few months now. The desert is a dangerous place._

_You’ll lead the Imps to him.  
_

Rex lies down and ignores them as best as he can. He’s a Captain. He’s a leader. He doesn’t get frightened by voices that aren’t there. He rests there for a few hours, heart beating like it’s trying to escape his rib-cage and the sick feeling of fear heavy and nauseating in his stomach.

Cold sweat is dripping down his spine now, and there’s phantom pain in places he’s not been hurt. It’s irrational and it’s insufferable and he’s usually able to turn it off, and now he can’t and he hates it. He gets up and starts walking again, and the scorching heat can’t warm him up. Soon he’s out of the canyons and at the edge of what must be the Western Dune Sea.

More sand.

Fantastic.

At least he didn’t get lost.

“If you’re out there, sir,” he murmurs to the wind, “I’d really appreciate it if you could try to find me.”

His words taste like blood now, maybe from the dust, maybe from the fear. He closes his eyes – ready to snap, maybe yell, punch the air. Anything to get rid of that snake of fear coiled in his gut.

“Right, do or do not,” he jokes like anyone can hear, like it’ll make him feel better.

Then the wind carries over the calls of animals and Rex has his destination. The things sound big, their lowing deep and calm like cattle. It’s probably what they are, native beasts turned domesticated livestock that provide someone nearby with food and hides.

 _Someone_.

Rex remembers how easily the General always seemed to connect with animals, especially large ones. He’d ridden an untamed Aiwha once, during Grievous and Ventress’ attack on Kamino – and really, even Fives and Hardcase would have never been crazy enough to try that one. The General would have probably made friends with joopas.

The Western Dune Sea is slightly cooler than the Jundland – which doesn’t make it _not hot_ by any measure – and Rex can see the horizon more clearly. There’s a herd of hairy creatures there.  
  
The wind picks up some speed and pushes Rex towards them, and now he _knows_ there’s Force-stuff involved. The very air seems to laugh, which Rex is pretty sure he shouldn’t be able to feel. He goes to the creatures and stops at half a klik away. Don’t ever come too close to the local wildlife. Excellent rule from the GAR’s handbook. Echo added that one.

Rex screws his eyes shut and lets out a trembling breath. He’s probably faint from the heat and all the walking. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine.

When the voice calls, real and loud and echoey and not a mirage, he’s no longer fine.

“Commander,” the dead voice says merrily, “don’t just stand there. The suns are no friends to inexperienced outsiders.”

And because it’s a voice that gives commands that are obeyed, Rex staggers in its direction.

“Hello there,” the voice greets.

Rex’s eyes trail from hairy beast to hairy beast to not-hairy big lizard (a dewback, gotta be) and they land on the voice’s owner, and it doesn’t make sense. The voice is older and deeper than in the old days, but recognizable. Except Rex doesn’t remember ever meeting the being that comes attached to it.

He stares, long and hard, at that aged face that’s just far enough that he can’t quite make out the expression. Frozen in his spot like a shiny, Rex swallows. And because the voice _must_ belong to a Jedi, the voice’s owner steps closer like he knows Rex isn’t going to move.

“I had a feeling you might come,” the man says serenely, once a mere ten meters separate them.

It’s still too far to touch, and Rex still doesn’t recognize this face. It’s aged and lined, like someone carved the youth out and left deep scores out of carelessness. Rex isn’t big on poetry, but he picked up enough. Experience tells him this face isn’t pitiable. It’s full of the quiet strength General Yoda and General Windu and Cody had, that durasteel-solid calm and wisdom that makes people awe-inspiring no matter how small, how old or how common.

This ancient face is crowned with white hair and a white beard not quite tamed. The eyes are faded blue and piercing.

“Really, Commander,” the man chides. “Surely you don’t expect me to do all the talking?”

“ _General_?”

The word tumbles out of Rex’s mouth. He almost gags it, really, and isn’t that great? Making a fool of himself before he’s even managed to say hello. The man shakes his head – no, _no_ , why is he shaking his head – and smiles indulgently, like Rex is a cute kid who made an endearing mistake. The man turns to pat a passing big hairy beast on the side.

“Not for a very long time now, I’m afraid,” he says gently. “But _you_ look like you’ve come out of retirement. Is that really your armor from the Clone Wars?”

Nothing makes sense and it’s just all so ridiculous and Rex is lost.

“General Kenobi, sir, I— Why are you calling me Commander?”

Because really, of all the pressing questions he has, _this_ one couldn’t wait. The old man wearing Jedi robes and a Jedi cloak and Jedi boots and a lightsaber gives him a curious look, one eyebrow raised while the other frowns. Jedi look right there.

“Why, we _did_ promote you for the Siege of Mandalore, didn’t we? But I may be mixing things up, we promoted Appo too.”

Rex drags a hand across his face and lets it linger over his mouth. Of all the ways he’d seen this conversation go…

“You did, sir. It just—there wasn’t time to get used to the title.”

“No, I imagine not.”

And the old man who is definitely Obi-Wan Kenobi – with his kind smile and his wise look and that feeling you get upon seeing him that he can fix anything and help anyone – beckons Rex closer and starts leading them through the sea of big mammals that stand there ruminating. He pets them as they walk buy, calling each one by name like it’s important. He always did that – remember everyone’s name.

One of the big hairy thing nudges General Kenobi with its enormous horned head and it gets a fond smile.

“Come now, Dolo, go bother your sister instead of me.”

The big thing snorts and shakes its head, and Rex stares. Kriffing Force-stuff—

“Banthas are quite intelligent,” not-General Kenobi explains without even turning his head. “They are prone to establishing psychic links with Tusken raiders. A fascinating symbiosis.”

And really? _Really?_ That’s what they’re going to discuss?

“Sir, I—”

“Oh, I know that’s not what you’re here to talk about,” the not-General dismisses with a wave. “Not to worry, my camp isn’t far.”

“Why are you camping in the desert, sir?” Rex blurts out.

“This is a _desert_ planet. I could hardly set up camp in a forest,” General Kenobi – always, absolutely General, no matter what Rex tries to think or General Kenobi says – teases. “But more seriously, I was following my nomadic friends here. It’s calving season and some of the younger cows had trouble with it last year.”

There’s what looks like a tent a klik away and it saves Rex the trouble of pondering that statement. Ezra said all this was important. Dire enough to shape the future of the Galaxy. There has to be more to it than _banthas_.

He follows silently, obedient like a good soldier. He’ll get his answers. He _will_ , even if they are weird and convoluted and take ages to get out of the General. General Kenobi goes to sit on a rock in front of an extinguished campfire and rekindles it somehow. Gotta be Force-stuff too, because Rex doesn’t see how poking sticks with another, longer stick can make flames.

General Kenobi smiles, again.

“Tatooine plants have remarkable properties.”

“Why do we need a fire, sir?”

“Because deserts get terribly cold at night. It’s the lack of a cloud cover, you see. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Right, Rex knew that.

They sit in silence for a while. Rex parses his thoughts and tries to find something, _anything_ to say that makes sense and doesn’t come from irrational bitterness or anger over things he doesn’t understand yet. General Kenobi watches him, probably aware of everything that’s going on in his head. Blasted Force-stuff.

“Why are you here?” Rex asks at last.

Starting with beginnings. Best way to get through confusing briefings.

“I live here,” General Kenobi answers simply. “And as for why Tatooine of all places, I’m afraid I can’t go into the details. It has to do with Jedi business.”

Of course it does. But—

“You're still a Jedi, sir?”

The General looks away and there’s something pained in the way his lips quirk. He sighs softly.

“I would hope so. Seventeen years… It’s a long time to be alone, and alone is something Jedi were never meant to be. But I still serve the Force, and carry with me our Order’s teachings. May that be enough.”

Oh. _Oh._

“But there are still Jedi out there,” Rex rushes to say. “You've met Ezra, and his master was General Billaba’s padawan. And Master Yoda—”

The General raises a hand.

“I know this, Rex. I haven’t been so cut off from the Galaxy as to ignore their presence.”

Then… that spark of bitterness is back, but not directed at the General himself. Blast fate and the universe and the kriffing Sith for making things this way. The flames cast dancing lights on his face and the setting suns give the General a glowing aura. Or maybe it’s more Jedi nonsense. Right now, looking at this seemingly infinitely wise man that’s serene like sleeping barracks and kind like General Shaak Ti, Rex isn’t even sure he’s talking to a living being. Maybe Jedi ghosts are a thing, and General Kenobi died at the end of the war and is just indulging him.

“I am perfectly alive, thank you very much.”

Rex snorts, embarrassed. He rubs his neck – still hot from trekking in the desert, might sting a bit tomorrow – and laughs sheepishly.

“It’s just— you look old, sir. Older than me.”

“Well, I _am_ older than you,” General Kenobi says. “And it’s Ben, not sir.”

“I’m not calling you Ben,” Rex splutters before he can think. Calling General Kenobi by his first name, real or new? To his _face_? No way. No way in all the Corellian hells. “And you know what I meant,” he quickly accuses, before he can get laughed at for his outburst. “I age faster.”

“Well,” General Kenobi replies casually, “twin suns and seventeen years of exile will do that to you. Consider this the Galaxy’s way of setting one thing right. You were never meant to be older than me.”

The words catch in Rex’s throat. The General isn’t even sixty yet, from what he remembers, and Jedi always looked youthful. General Windu was almost sixty by the end of the war, never looked like it. How is _this_ right?

“Sir—”

“Ben,” General Kenobi corrects again. “Though I’m getting the feeling this is a battle I won’t win. In three years of war, I never got Cody to call me Obi-Wan.”

Rex shuts his eyes and presses his lips into a fine line. _Cody_. Cody is a forbidden subject, one he will _not_ broach under any circumstances. Brothers, more generally. Don’t talk about brothers.

“I apologize,” General Kenobi murmurs. “I assume the old days aren’t a topic you’re too fond of either.”

He is, actually. But it does hurt too much right now. The old days of war that seemed so terrible at the time and not so bad now. People were dying and suffering, but they thought there was some amount of reason to it all and that it would be right someday. And it’s still not right, and there aren’t brothers anymore and the Clones killed their Jedi and the Temple burned with the Republic. And then Vader…

The suns are almost set, thousands of stars already peeking out. The night sky probably isn’t dark here. This isn’t Coruscant.

“Did you know Ahsoka was alive?” Rex asks unprompted, eyes pricking.

She certainly never said _he_ was alive. And Organa lied his senatorial pants off, the son of a mynock.

General Kenobi nods.

“Then,” Rex starts again, throat closing. “You know that she’s— that Vader—”

“I know she’s with the Force,” the General says confidently. “And that the Force is quite mysterious. Don’t despair, Captain, we might yet see her again.”

Yeah, right. Rex stopped believing in the afterlife well before he even learned that Jedi could die. He doesn’t tell General Kenobi that, because chances are he already knows and it’s not a very nice thing to say. What does he know anyway? He’s the Clone of a bounty hunter, raised on the least spiritual planet the Galaxy had, and bred to slaughter an ancient religion. He shouldn’t try to make sense of that sort of things.

“And Vader?” Rex presses. “Do you know about him?”

General Kenobi suddenly grows frighteningly serious. He gets up and makes his way around the fire, and kneels to Rex’s level. Somehow, that’s more frightening that a journey through the desert spent freaking out, and more frightening than all the crap the Empire has thrown at them for years. General Kenobi’s eyes are too knowing and too gray and too sad, and Rex feels like the cadet he hasn’t been for over twenty years.

“What do _you_ know about him?” General Kenobi asks softly.

No. No, this can't be where this is going. It can’t.

“Ezra said— He wasn’t sure, but Ahsoka called out Vader, said she’d thought he was—”

General Kenobi stays silent. How did Cody put up with that kind of crap for three years? Rex bolts to his feet and angrily stalks away. He looks at the stars and curses them silently. What business do they have turning, with their thousands of worlds spinning with them, when by all rights the universe ended almost twenty years ago? Why is the desert calm and at peace?

Rex thought he’d found peace, or some form of it, alone with Wolffe and Gregor and the memories of happier, more violent times. But he hasn’t. He’s a Clone and their blood constantly boils with anger and passion and the need to fight, and right now he could punch the Force.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair, and it can’t be true, and if it is then General Kenobi can’t make Rex say it. It’d undo him.

“When we captured Maul on Mandalore, right before the end, he told us something,” Rex says, back still turned on the General. “That Sidious wanted General Skywalker as his apprentice.”

There’s a sigh, and a hand on his shoulder.

“Then you know.”

Rex knows blaster bolts to the chest don’t hurt like that. Good thing he does, too, or else he’d be half-convinced he’s just been shot. His knees give out and he double over with a cry. His forehead hits the hot sand. It crunches. So it does turn into clari-crystal after all.

Gentle hands push his shoulders up and rest his throbbing head on a warm shoulder. Rex wants to pull away, finds out he can’t.

“Peace, Captain.”

The voice is strong and soothing and so full of sorrow Rex starts hiccuping. It sounds like Cody and he’s never felt so small and so pathetic. He's a Clone who was made to kill his superiors – the kindest, bravest beings in the Galaxy, who’d folded their wings over his brothers and tried their best to protect everyone, and died for it. All part of a sick man’s power games. A piece of dejarik on the grand board. And that knowledge, that hollow feeling, the realization that he’d had as much free will and importance as a kriffing B1 droid? In seventeen years, it might have hurt less than _this_.

General Skywalker.

 _Anakin_.

How could he—? _How_?

The greatest leader Rex had ever known, _his_ leader, his _friend_. The man he’d looked up to for twenty blasted years. His brother. He’d mourned him with Ahsoka, right after the war. They’d been on the run and every night had been spent clinging to one another and crying every tear they had to cry for their dead and their lost.

He’d punched people in the face and almost got himself captured once of twice because someone had been stupid enough to insult General Skywalker’s memory in front of him.

He’d have given everything, he’d have died _happily_ in service of that man. He’d have trusted him with everything.

And all this time— _seventeen years_ —

Anakin had—

And Rex managed to deny it for so long and stay blissfully ignorant, and now he can't. 

A hand cups his neck and he burrows into the comfort and warmth he’s offered by one of the only people out of a universe of trillions that ever saw Rex as more than just his face and rank. Cody had told him one night – drunk on lack of sleep and one too many cups of caf – that he thought Obi-Wan Kenobi was what fathers were supposed to be, for all that Clones were adults and didn’t need fathers and Jedi had Masters instead of parents.

“ _So, like a less annoying older brother?”_ Rex had asked.

“ _Still plenty annoying.”_

Rex can’t stop shaking.

“It’s alright, young one,” General Kenobi shushes, and unnatural calm washes over Rex like cool rain. 

“Not young,” Rex mumbles into his shoulder.

Hasn’t been young in forever. Was probably decanted old.

“That is a matter of point of view, really. I was still terribly young when I was thirty.” There’s a pause. The calm feeling isn't going away, like Rex assumed it would. “The beard does make you look older. It suits you, by the way. I certainly approve.”

Rex laughs wetly and pulls away. He wipes his eyes without looking at General Kenobi, eyes trained at the dancing fire.

“You would,” he says with another weak laugh.

“Imitation _is_ flattery.”

Rex missed this. He closes his eyes again and breathes in deeply through the pain. He wants to ask a few thousand other things – if Ahsoka had known General Kenobi was alive, how _he_ found about Anakin, if he knew what had happened, _why_ it'd happened – but he won't. Whatever Force-stuff the General's done to help Rex get himself under control won't last. Rex will have plenty of time to be bitter and angry and to scream at the uncaring universe. He'll take the calm for now. The General's hands drop from his shoulders and he’s left a bit cold, but then they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder and it’s okay. It’s just like old campaigns, when they had time before the big battles and they sat with their Jedi to wait, and it tasted almost like peace. The suns are completely gone now and the sky's alight with millions of distant stars.

“Looks kind of nice,” Rex comments tiredly. 

Anything to think about something trivial and simple. General Kenobi nods, allowing him the easy deflection. 

“There are plenty of beautiful things about Tatooine,” he says. “I'll show them to you, if you want.”

He scoops up some sand and it sparkles. On the now exposed ground below, tiny orange flowers peek out. They glow faintly, like the plants on Saleucami. Rex perks up.

“Tatooine has flowers?”

“And beautiful sunrises, blue auroras that take your breath away, and many wondrous animals,” General Kenobi says. He sounds content. 

Rex tilts his head and pauses to think.

“That’s the trick, isn’t it,” he says after a moment. “It’s always finding worthwhile things no matter where.”

Seelos sucked, but there were a few things likable things about it. The night sky was great there too. And _this_... This cold and evil reality where skies tumble down and people die in droves and best friends turn into monsters out of the Sith hells, it's got a few things worthwhile too. And Rex will protect them and refuse to agonize over the things he's seventeen years too late to change. He can do it. 

General Kenobi gives him an approving look, the one that says _“I’m proud of you”_ even when you don’t see what you’ve done to deserve it. Rex always was slightly jealous of Cody for getting that look all the time.

“Indeed. It does appear you aren’t so young, my friend,” General Kenobi says.

Rex lies down in the warm sand to gaze at the stars. He’s exhausted. That allows him to push all his hurt and all his pain and all his fears away more easily and rest, as safe as the Galaxy will allow him to be. He’ll think about Vader later, about how he deals with that betrayal and doesn't let it consume him. He’ll ask General Kenobi for pointers, maybe tell him all about Ahsoka these last years, and about Kanan and Ezra – what he doesn’t already know, that is, and he probably knows much. Force-stuff and all that. He'll tell him about Numa too. Knowing General Kenobi, he probably remembers her. They'll talk about the worthwhile things. 

“There’s tea in the tent, if you want,” General Kenobi offers.

Rex snorts.

“You’ve got me confused with someone else,” he chuckles. “I never drank tea.”

“Hmm, unfortunately true. Commander Gree was the one with some appreciation for it.”

“I wouldn’t say no to food, though,” Rex says.

“Tomorrow. I don’t have rations left, but there are black melons growing not far and small game is easy enough to catch.”

Heh, good enough. Rex turns onto his side and closes his eyes, knowing the General has first watch. He always did. Then there are heavy footsteps and a warm hairy thing drops next to him. Rex peers one eye open, a hand on his blaster out of habit. The General didn’t make a sound, so it’s probably okay.

“Nara likes to keep me company at night,” General Kenobi comments.

He’s scratching behind the horns of a relatively small bantha calf that settled down near Rex.

“Sweet,” Rex smiles, closing his eyes again.

There’s sand in his beard and his blacks, and he’ll probably be sore all over in the morning for walking for so long under the blazing suns, but it’s all so familiar it’s more comforting than annoying. Like old campaigns.

"Night, sir," he says. 

"Goodnight, Rex," _Ben_ says back. 

**Author's Note:**

> So the first part is right after Twin Suns, and the second is sometime after Zero Hour. I hope I didn't mess up the Rebels timeline.
> 
> I accidentally stole the flowers from CallToMuster's _desert flower._ It's an excellent short fic about post Order 66 Obi-Wan.


End file.
